I Think it’s Good to Remember…

That what you read here is half of my half of the story.
You read what I choose to share.
From my perspective.
You’ve never heard Sir’s side of the story about our interactions.
You read me.
Sometimes in the midst of an emotional turmoil.
Sometimes it is raw and the feelings are still with me.
Sometimes I embellish.
Sometimes I edit.
Oftentimes, I omit.

You read a product.
An account of my interactions,
In and out of order,
With a person whose identity I seek to protect,
Even above my own. 
This is a serialized telling of my life with him.
I leave you with half chapters.
And some of you… some of you
who I’ve never even interacted with
choose to believe you’ve read the whole book.

And in your heads, you paint him the villain
you paint me the villain
You make assumptions about our identities.
About why I stay anonymous.
About the realities of our situation.
About me.
About him.
And this is good.
I want you to wonder.
I want you to make up stories in your head.
To fill in the gaps.
To think of Fatal and Sir as what they are:
characters.
Characterizations of two real, flesh and blood people.

But if you think that your filler
makes for good fodder
to feed into my sensitive heart…
If you are an asshole who is seeking to hurt me
I want you to know
that I don’t give a fuck about you,
or your assumptions.
That my heart is sensitive for people that I care about.
But I am dead inside
for those who try to cross me.
That’s not an embellishment.
Nor is it a warning.
It is a statement of fact.

I grow weary of PSAs.
And I feel like I shouldn’t even waste my time with them.
The people who email me their opinions don’t even have the balls to say them in an open forum.
So why do I give them the head space or the blog space?
Because it’s my blog.
And I do as I damn well please.
That’s why.

My new email is FatalSyndrome@mail.com
Please take note.

There is Power in Words

I remember the first time I heard your voice. It was like no other voice I’d ever heard. You might think it cut through me clean and surgical, tearing me asunder, rocking my world, touching me in ways unknown. But it did not. No. Your beautiful voice, with its lovely cadence, its deep timbre, its raw honesty and feeling… it could have never cut through me so perfectly.

Your voice was a ragged blade, tearing through the skin and muscle and marrow, leaving rivulets of blood blossoming from jagged edges. Your voice became a deep wound within me, unable to heal–every scab, no matter how newly formed, ripped fresh from the gash to let me bleed again. I feel you distinctly, an unending scar cut into the fabric of my soul. You are like a tattoo that only I can see, something living and breathing, a constant reminder of all that is you.

And like a tattoo, you are an addiction. I want a fresh needle, a raw wound, new blood. I ache for the sound in my ear as much as I ache for you, your body, your mind, the feel of your hands on me, the feel of my hands on you.

I thought about the first time I heard your voice, and the way it sent me spinning, reeling, flying into every moment that has passed between us since.

Who knew it would lead us here.

Post-coital Meanderings

Sometimes when I am still floating in the after sex haze I have thoughts that course through my mind completely unfiltered. I pick up my phone and type out a draft and save it for later. This is what this is:

 

I love the way I say “oh, god” when I am at a loss for words and you answer, “Yea, baby?”

I know that you are asking me to elaborate on what I’m feeling, instead of just calling to a nameless divinity.

But part of me…

Thinks that part of you…

Is acknowledging that when I’m calling out “oh, god” I’m calling out to you.

And I’m not saying you’re a god… because I’m not that far gone. But when I am so far gone, and so deep in our play, and so mind fucked by you… you are the only one that exists for me… in the whole world. In that moment it is just you.

And so for moments… you are the Alpha and the Omega, as it were. When I’m calling out “oh, god” I am calling out to you.

He is Generous

I have a generous lover.

He pushes me when he knows I want and can take more.
He goes easy on me when he knows I need it.
He asks me what I want, even when he has an idea of what he wants.
He is patient. He is kind. He is understanding.
He doesn’t bat a lash when I ask him to maim me.
He doesn’t bat a lash when I ask him to treat me sweetly.
He indulges me in all things.
He laughs with me.
He is turned on by me and never fails to say it.
He makes me feel wanted, needed, beautiful.
He speaks to my body in a secret language that is all his own.
He marks me and makes me feel base, possessed, owned.

I am his princess and his slut and his girl and his pooh.

Like Playing Two Truths and a Lie

I get them so rarely–comparatively, given the life of the blog, but my favorite emails are ones in which readers think they have spotted Sir and I out and about in public. If they don’t provide descriptions, I always email back and ask, because I find these both interesting and telling.

Some recent favorites:

Short redhead and tall, well-built man at a grocery store in (my city). She was wearing this retro pin-up dress and heels and a collar and the man kept patting her ass affectionately and tugging on her D-ring. Pretty sure it was you two out shopping for dinner!

Two hipster looking youths–early to mid twenties, both covered in tattoos, the man with an air of something hyper masculine about him. The girl, short and coquettish with glasses with no lenses.

Two professional looking types, early thirties, at an airport. The woman is a short redhead in high heels, and the man a brassy blonde in a well-cut suit. They are leaving on different planes and both carry suitcases. They are unafraid of PDA and share a passionate kiss before they part ways.

I swear I saw you at (name of local fetish/sex club). You look just the way you describe in your blog, and I’d know those full, pouted lips anywhere. He was spanking you in a crowd of people and you were wearing a bustier. There was a pseudo gang bang that you found yourselves in the middle of. I respect a man who can pull off leather pants.

 

I’ve been very lax in mentioning the city I live in on the blog, because it’s a huge city and giant tourist destination, so I’ve felt comfortable and anonymous even though everyone knows the name. Consequently, these don’t make me uncomfortable, but I marvel at the little things that people have right, and the large things that they have wrong. I like to peek over your shoulder and know what you think of Sir and I… the kinds of people you think we are, the every day bodies we inhabit outside of Fatal and Sir.

Kinky people are among us… and truly, you might find us in any of these scenarios, because we are normal people. I’ve never been approached by someone who reads my blog in person–I imagine this is because I don’t put many pictures up and the ones I do put up are not very revealing, but I wonder how I’d react. Probably deny, deny, deny, to be honest, but the tiny exhibitionist in me might say: “well… perhaps,” and blush, coquettishly, as one person described me. And maybe the arm of the man beside me would wrap protectively around my waist and he’d pat my ass affectionately, and smirk.

I don’t know about the leather pants though. *snort*